The Angry Poet loves greatest hits. The Angry Poet holds a grudge. The Angry Poet can't help but look back, get nostalgic about things that happened three-and-some years ago if only to become angrier...as if there wasn't enough right now. The Angry Poet did not and does not own a home. Still, the Angry Poet is angry. And because he's been a renter (proudly, and out of necessity, since 1981) the Angry Poet, without any recent experience of his home-owning own, can take a high horse position. It should make you angry.
Housing Bubble
These thin, transparent walls,
the arched ceiling,
the perfect concave view
of what’s outside distorted
as through a lens,
how can you feel safe here
when you should be out there
throwing stones?
Your dream’s a soap bubble,
scented with expansion
inflated on the breath
of voices you can’t see.
Time to come clean.
You’re worth less
than limp balloons.
The domicile
as kingdom
is moat without castle.
The alligators
own your mortgage,
it’s gone digital,
as ephemeral
as the check in the mail.
Now, you’re a cloud
and the sun is shining
on someone else’s
buyer’s market. See
its soapy rainbow. Pop.
The Cabbage Rabbit Review of Books and Music